Destiny Calling
Authors: Maureen L. Bonatch
Tags: #Ghosts,Demons-Gargoyles,New Adult,Suspense,Paranormal,Fantasy
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Destiny Calling
by
Maureen L. Bonatch
The Enchantlings Series
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Destiny Calling
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Maureen L. Bonatch
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by
Debbie Taylor
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Faery Rose Edition, 2014
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-666-8
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-667-5
The Enchantlings Series
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Yasmine and Laken,
who make me proud
writing their own beautiful stories,
and to Jamie,
who understands my love affair with words.
Chapter One
He was real
.
For eight years, I’d wondered if he was actually there the day Tessa rescued me from the orphanage, or if he was another hallucination. He’d never told me his name then or in the dreams that followed. He was either too busy kissing me…or killing me. It wasn’t him I’d come looking for, but I couldn’t walk away now that I’d found him.
“Whatcha drinking, Red?” The old man tending bar was talking to me, even though a month ago I stopped being a redhead. Well, tried. I’d had as much success with the dye job as I did figuring out what drew me to this bar in the middle of nowhere.
“I’ll have a tequila.”
My
dream man
didn’t appear to notice me yet, but there was no way I could’ve missed him. I’d never forget those wary eyes and the way they bore through me in my dreams. I eyed the bottle the bartender held with the bloated worm floating in the bottom.
“The good stuff. Not what you use to clean out a carburetor.” I didn’t have money to spare, but couldn’t afford another headache.
“What do you call yourself?”
Amused at how the bartender put it that way, I smiled because I was nobody now that Tessa was gone. “I’m Hope.” The name rolled off my tongue as if it had always been mine. My life as Jane, and any semblance of a normal existence, died with Tessa.
Hope was what the
man of my dreams
called me.
“Don’t see your type around here much.”
I searched the man’s wrinkled face for a better explanation of what it was he saw. He rested his arm on the bar, bringing his drink with him.
“My type?” Whether it was the evil the nuns claimed infested me, or the good Tessa insisted I was destined for, I didn’t know.
“Not many women come in here.” His gaze lingered on my breasts. “The ones that do aren’t high-class ones like you.” He gestured to my old jeans and wrinkled shirt I’d been wearing for several days.
“Oh.” I barely stopped myself from laughing. Smoothing my shirt, I wished I’d taken the time to put on a clean one.
“I’m Chief.” He turned, heading to the back of the bar. “Gonna get you a clean glass.”
A pot-bellied patron started to slide on to the stool beside me, and his hand brushed against mine. I gasped at the jolt of pain when a flood of hopefulness rushed out of me and into the startled recipient. A faint smile played on his lips as his grip tightened. “Wow, you feel good.”
Focusing on the name embroidered on the upper corner of his shirt,
Ritchie,
I tried to gather the strength to pull my hand free.
“Get your hand off her,
now
,” my
dream man
said.
“What? It was an accident, Griffith.” Ritchie appeared reluctant to comply, but shrank back from the intensity of Griffith’s glare and released my hand to choose a seat further away. “Sorry, lady.”
“That’s okay.” It wasn’t, but it was my fault. I’d been careless and not paying attention. “What’s this place called?” I looked away.
Griffith.
Getting the feel of having a name to attach to him.
“Last Call.” Griffith pointed to a crudely etched piece of wood hanging behind the bar, turning his stool to get a better look at me. I pretended not to notice his gaze wander over me, or think he looked even better in real life.
Instead, I turned to stare out the dirty window, taking in the crumbling tombstones in the graveyard on the hill, then focused on the road sign.
Hope’s Way.
When I closed and opened my eyes again,
the image blurred and changed back into the road’s real name.
Spirit Road
. Three faded wooden animal masks strung over the corner of the sign shimmered in the sun on this warm April day.
I’d come to think the visual distortions were Tessa’s method of leading me where I needed to go. I’d have never guessed it would be right outside Pittsburgh, near the last place I wanted to be—the orphanage.
Griffith picked up his gloves and took his time letting the leather swallow up his long fingers.
My breath caught as my attention lingered on the scar on his palm. The puckered flesh had healed poorly.
What if the scar isn’t really there? What if it’s another visual distortion?
I touched his palm, my finger tracing the outline of the scar.
Griffith paused with the glove half on. Finally meeting my eyes, but searching my face as if imploring me to remember what he’d told me repeatedly in the dream.
“If you ever see me, don’t approach me. Walk away…no, run. It’s best. If you don’t I can’t control what may happen once the choice is made. Until then, the choice is yours.”
I never did like being told what to do.
“You saved me,” I said, as the memory of the day I left the orphanage resurfaced. How my freedom and my life were almost cut short by a man who’d appeared out of nowhere, until Griffith had intervened. He’d grabbed the knife with his bare hand, stopping the blade from slicing my throat. “Why?”
He glanced around the bar. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”
“You saving me? Or him killing me?”
“Not here.” He returned his focus to his drink.
His answer made as much sense as the dreams. I shoved my hand in my pocket to find the magazine picture, not caring how odd it might look pulling it out at the bar. As I ran the photo through my fingers, my anxiety lessened. Most of the ink on the page was smeared. I’d have to find a new one.
The redheaded stranger stared off the page. I traced the woman’s face with a nail in need of grooming. This was how I’d imagined her, with fair skin like mine, but softer features. I’d never had a real photo of my mother. Instead, I chose pictures from magazines and made up her story.
The bartender returned, grabbing a bottle of tequila from the top shelf. There were only two shelves, so that wasn’t saying much.
He poured the drink with a shaky hand, taking a swig before capping off the bottle.
Shoving the crumpled picture back into my pocket as I put a couple of bills on the bar, I mentally counted what I had left. Not much, but I was used to getting by on little more than air and attitude.
Chief snagged his due and slid the drink, as well as a saltshaker and a slice of lime, in front of me.
I picked up the small glass and pushed the salt and lime aside. “I don’t need training wheels.” I tossed back the shot like I belonged here, all the while hiding a grimace as the liquor burned down my throat. Something told me I did belong here, for now at least. That something, or I should say,
someone,
sat two stools to my left, paying his tab.
Running my sweaty palms over my jeans, I detected the undercurrent of cinnamon intermingled with the stench of smoke. The light cinnamon scent implied the pain wouldn’t be strong enough to overwhelm me the way it had when I worked at the psychiatric hospital as an aide. That job didn’t last either. My attempts to instill hope in the patients left me exhausted with their constant desperate needs. But here, with the assistance of liquor to dull the hopelessness and despair, I might be able to function without killing myself with the effort.
“Looks like you’re hiring.” I inclined my head toward the window where a torn piece of cardboard was propped. Granted the word bartender was misspelled on the help wanted sign, but I wouldn’t judge that, if Chief didn’t judge my nonexistent bartending skills.
“Huh? Just put the sign up. Bob doesn’t even know he’s fired, yet.” Chief gestured to a man passed out in the corner with a featureless face, except for a raised scar lining his cheek. “But you? Bartend?” He cackled and brown tobacco spittle leaked out onto his chin. “You don’t look old enough, not that it’d matter. Besides, they’d eat you for lunch.”
“With salt and lime?” I met his stare. I’d dealt with his type and worse when Tessa and I moved from one apartment to another. “Besides, I’m old enough, for goodness’ sake.” Even if I was freshly twenty-one and didn’t know vodka from gin, the people here probably didn’t either.
“
Goodness’ sake
?” Chief raised a thick eyebrow. “You really are in the wrong place.”
“I don’t think so.” Not since I’d noticed the black fog clustered near the woods on the way there. I’d either found my destination or was losing my mind. At least there was a psychiatric hospital nearby if the second proved true.
Ritchie tapped his empty beer mug on the bar. “This drink ain’t gonna fill itself, Chief.” His belly looked at war with his t-shirt straining to break free. “I can’t hear the game with his snoring.”
Chief glared at Bob, whose mouth gaped with a resounding snore. Chief reluctantly pulled himself away from his drink and went to fill Ritchie’s request.
I pretended to reach into the basket of peanuts, which were surely encrusted with every germ known to man, and instead, dipped my pinky finger into Chief’s glass and gave it a stir. I’d never tried to dispense hope, or whatever it was that leaks out of me, without direct contact with the person, but sensed Chief’s attention span was waning. My time was limited to convince him I could do the job.
“Griffith, can you get him out of here?” Chief pointed at Bob.
“Sure, Chief.” Griffith stood from the stool, his tight jeans and snug t-shirt highlighting an excess of muscle. He spared me one last lingering glance that nearly stopped my heart with its intensity, and then went over to wake Bob.
Chief returned and pulled a stool underneath him, settling into it with a sigh. After surveying me from head to toe, he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Nope, can’t see it working out. This crowd here now is gentle. You have
no
idea what we get in here during the later hours.”
“What have you got to lose?” Picking up my glass, I tilted it to get the last drops of tequila. His eyes locked onto the glass and he sought his own out for a deep pull. I tensed, watching his expression. Uncertain if my attempts at a pinky hope dispenser had worked, or if it was the booze, but his watery eyes became thoughtful as he scratched his chin.
“Well? Do I have a job or not?”
Chief ran his thick, pink tongue over his upper lip. “You have any experience at this kind of thing?”
“Sure.” I lied.
How hard could it be?
Chief glanced at Griffith, who gave a discreet nod. “Guess having a young woman here could bring in customers. A new joint just opened, been takin’ some of my business.” He looked me over again. “You got anything a little bit…less to wear? You know,” he said, with a waggle of his eyebrows. “Easy on the eyes? It’d get ya more tips. ’Cause if you’re looking for money, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I’m sure I have something.” If nothing else, I’d open a couple buttons of my blouse. My lack of bartending skills, and abundance of sarcasm, was more likely to earn me trouble than tips. Besides, everything I owned was in the back of my car.
